Page 17 of In Too Deep

Jake nearly choked on his pint.

Across the table, Deacon looked genuinely offended. “I’ve been seeing her a month.”

“This time around, maybe. But you and Ivy have been bouncing back and forth longer than I’ve been with my Trace.”

“Still not long enough.”

“Absolutely is.”

“Really not.”

Raff ignored him and headed for the door. “See you later, lads.”

Raff then headed out into the night and jogged across the road to his battered tow truck with BLACKRIDGE AUTOS & SALVAGE magnetised crookedly across the side panel beneath layers of grime.

Deacon waited until the truck disappeared down the high street before looking back at Jake. “Not worth the grief though, are they?”

“What?”

“Relationships.” Deacon lifted his pint. “Staying single, shagging who you want, when you want. That’s the life, innit? You got it made, mate.”

Jake snorted, hooking a beer mat off the table and bending it between his fingers. “What’s Ivy done now?”

Deacon leaned back again, tipping the chair on two legs to peek over at the other table. Subtle as a brick. “She wants to move in.”

Jake gave a quiet laugh. “Thought that was the dream.”

“It was the dream.” Deacon slammed his chair back on all fours and leaned forward to wrap his hands around his pint. “Now it’s my gaff getting taken over. She’s already got half the wardrobe. Makeup everywhere—” he gestured wildly with his hands “—all that… stuff in the bathroom. And don’t even start me on the cushions.”

“The horror.”

“I got scatter cushions, mate.”

Jake grinned into his pint. “They’re nice.”

“You live in a dump.”

“And I’d kill for someone to make it look less like one.”

“Bollocks, you would.”

Jake shrugged, easy on the outside, though he tightened his grip around the glass. Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. Hard to picture anyone in his space without it feeling… off. No one had ever stayed at his place. Not even for one night. He’d never wanted anyone in his space.

He tipped back his pint.

The King’s Arms was quiet for a Monday. Proper quiet. No band, no bodies packed in shoulder to shoulder, no Deacon working the crowd as if he was born for it. Just the low hum of the fruit machine in the corner, the dull clink of glasses, Pete hunched over his accounts at the far table, stabbing his pen into the buttons on a calculator, and that couple of girls sat by the window. Oh, and Brodie, the barman he had history with, scrolling through his phone. Hopefully searching for another job somewhere Jake didn’t have to see him all the bloody time. Brodie reminded him too much of the man he used to be.

Jake glanced down at his phone again.

Deacon smirked over the rim of his pint. “What you waiting for?”

Jake took a drink. “Nowt.”

“Right. Only you’ve checked that thing about six times since I sat down.”

“Haven’t.”

“Have.”